When I think back, it always seems to be a gray, cold, and rainy day, maybe in November. I am standing at the bus stop with my sister, I watch her get on the bus, then I turn around and go into the store. In the entrance way, there is a place that makes berlingots basque, which is a triangular candy made with hot sugar. It smells like cotton candy and the air is warm and humid. I can see my breath.
However, when the weather is nice or I am going to meet my boyfriend, Patrice, I walk to les Champs Elysees and just wallow in the joy of being there. When that is the plan, I meet my sister in the afternoon at the bus stop and we walk home together down la Rue de Poncelet. She gives me all the pertinent information like what they served for lunch, etc., so that I will pass any cross examination that might be thrown at me.
It worked for a long time, that is until my mother saw me "sauntering" (her word) down les Champs Elysees with Patrice one day. It just so happened she was sitting at one of the cafes.
She took it well. My father, on the other hand, did not.
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* I have always been drawn to paper and notebooks, maybe because of that innate need to express myself, whether by writing or by drawing, neither of which I can do. It's one of the great frustrations of my life - how do I express myself, let everything that's inside come out?
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